The Appetite May Sicken
by dearjayycee
Summary: Anorexia Nervosa. An eating disorder characterized by immoderate food restriction and irrational fear of gaining weight. I, Sherlock Holmes, am not anorexic. Bulimia Nervosa. An eating disorder characterized by binge eating and purging. I, John Watson, am a bulimic.


I'm sorry if this triggers anything for anyone. I will try to do this in the most tasteful and respectful way.

I personally have suffered from anorexia and a good friend of mine whom is helping me with John's POV suffered from bulimia. We are both better now but monsters will always wonder in the darkest edges of your mind.

This is my way of saying I am better now, that I can think about it and all the things that drove me to it without it coming back to kill me.

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_'Anorexia Nervosa. An eating disorder characterized by immoderate food restriction and irrational fear of gaining weight. I am not scared of gaining weight, I just don't see the point in sticking around. Why live life if it's so dull? If I were a different man, I might have already killed myself, but I'm not. My name is Sherlock Holmes, and no matter what the idiotic doctors my mother hires say, I am not anorexic.'_

Sherlock was tired, much too tired to try and get up to do anything. So he lay in bed looking up at his celling, letting his mind wander to whatever it pleased. Unfortunately, it kept drifting back to doctors visit after doctors visit, threats upon threats of rehab, and argument after argument about the way he ate. It caused him to want to eat less; thinking maybe if he ate less then it would all stop. He wondered when it would finally cause his body to fall over in defeat. Having lost an inch of height already, he was sure it wouldn't be too long before his kidneys gave out and then the rest would follow. Sherlock pulled his quilt up higher, seeking warmth in his seemingly cold room.

"Sherlock! Get up, we're going out to dinner." Mycroft seemed angry as per usual. His footsteps stalked off down the hallway, towards his own room, which had always been much to close for comfort.

Sure, Sherlock didn't want to get up but he knew if he didn't his brother would soon come back and barge into his room, making him get up. More than anything Sherlock hated being told what to do, it honestly made him want to do the opposite of what he was told. He supposed that was why it all started. Mother always telling him how to dress and behave, father always riding his ass when it came to studies, figuratively of course. Finally realizing he wasn't living his life but theirs was the last straw. He broke and he was strong enough that could admit to it.

Forcing his body out of bed was becoming harder and harder as the days went by but he finally convinced his socked feet hit the floor. He padded over to his wardrobe, still being tightly wrapped in his nightwear and a robe. Sherlock pulled out an undershirt, dress shirt, dress jacket, slacks, a scarf and his trench coat. Layers meant warmth. It also hid his body from unwelcome eyes, were they couldn't see what he was doing. If they didn't see, they couldn't judge him.

Sherlock didn't dare look down at his own body, as he got dressed, his eyes had been trained to stay on walls for a long time now. Once dressed he walked into the bathroom, grabbing the brush off of the counter and brushing rigorously as he tried to tame the beast. The mirror that once sat on his restroom wall had been removed years ago, once he had stopped being able to look at the monster everyone thought he was.

_'They were all snide children who didn't know genius when it hit them over the head with a insult.' _He wasn't trying to be rude the first time it happened. He had just lightly pointed out to the only person whom had ever been nice to him that his 'oh, so perfect' head cheerleader girlfriend had been cheating on him for about a year. After that Sally made it her goal to ruin his life, not that he cared much for her childish attempts, he choose to beat them with pure wit, which in turned made her and her groupies madder.

Sherlock was infinitely glad that Easter break started a day ago. It gave him a chance to get away from their silly games and immaturity for two weeks. _'Maybe I'll be dead by the time school starts again. It would be nice to go out without having to seem them. That would be pleasant.' _

"Sherlock! Get out here now." Mycroft irritated him thoroughly but he had no choice when it came to the matter, he lived in his parent's house and they were in control. Alas, they had given their control to Mycroft, it was a pity really because he was a control freak. Though, so was he, that's what anorexia was about anyways…control. '_Well, if I had anorexia that's what it would be about but I don't.' _

-.X.-

"He _will_ have the foie gras." Mr. Holmes told the waiter after he had decided Sherlock had taken to long to tell the man what he wanted. _'Father is wrong, even if I did eat…it wouldn't be that. Really? Why would anyone eat fattened duck liver? Sure it was really good for you, high in iron, vitamin A, and cholesterol. Containing 250 calories with 220 from fat per serving, not including any sauces, sides, or seasonings.' _

By the time he thought of all the different popular variations of the French dish, the waiter was already back with their meal. He set the plates in front of them, then asking if they needed anything else to which his father answered for all of them with a 'no'.

Sherlock pushed his asparagus around on his plate, moving it through what seemed like balsamic vinegar, _'Fourteen per tablespoon.' _The liver set on top of a spoonful of mashed potatoes. He hated his food touching, it made everything taste wrong. Sherlock continued to push around his food spreading it out to make it look like less.

"Sherlock, do you know how much foie gras costs?" Sherlock hated the belittling tone is father used with him, he wasn't a little boy anymore.

"Yes, father, I do. About forty pounds a pound." _'A ridiculous price for animal liver. Well, human liver is 101,500 pounds on the black market so forty is extremely cheap in comparison. ' _

"Sherlock, that plate costs 30 pounds, eat your food." Mr. Holmes was now staring him down, his mother just looked over to him in pity. Sherlock hated that look on her face, he hated most everything these days it seemed.

"Sherlock Holmes, if you don't eat your food, I swear to god I am going to-" The threat was left hanging and because of this it lost all value in his son's eyes. _'Father never was good with threats. It's sad really, all that talk and no follow through.' _Sherlock might have been frightened if anything his father said meant anything to him.

Sherlock placed a miniscule bite in his mouth, letting it sit on his tongue as he moved his jaw up and down, waiting for his father to look away. When the other man finally did, he gracefully brought his napkin up to his mouth in the most inconspicuous way and spat his food out into it. He repeated this throughout dinner sometimes placing food on Mycroft's plate when they were all engaged in conversation. The look of surprise on his brothers face when there was still more food on his plate disgusted Sherlock, that little smile that said 'Oh goody, food!'

Dinner was almost done and he had so far gotten by with only the horrid taste left on his tongue. There was only a little bit left on his plate, he scooped it up as he looked towards his parents whom were both openly staring at him with pride. Sherlock hardly thought eating was something to be proud of, well, fake eating in his case.

He 'fake chewed' while he waited for them to look away but their stares did not waver, to them this was the bite that mattered, the bite that said 'I ate all this food, I am now better.' Sherlock Holmes was the exact opposite of better, and no matter how much he told himself he hated these people, he couldn't bring himself to disappoint them. He started to chew, the sensation feeling foreign to him. When he was sure he wouldn't choke Sherlock let the food roll down the back of his tongue. The feeling of food hitting the bottom of his stomach, automatically made him want to abort the mission and let it all come back up. Sherlock never did like throw-up it was mess and foul.

The smile on his mothers face almost split the skin covering her skull in two. She was so pleased it repulsed him. _'What a silly thing to be pleased over. Why don't they save if for Mycroft, if my one bite is so satisfying they should at least buy Mycroft an island for eating most of my plate.' _The waiter came back to pick up there plates, and in his state of utter revulsion he placed his napkin on the now empty plate in front of him. Mycroft reached over and peeled back the wadded up thing a little to see it was stuck together with mash, Sherlock had no time to stop the other. Both his parents looked over to what everyone around was now preoccupied with. That stupid napkin.

Mother looked so distraught with him, maybe she'd finally realized what he was. _'It's better her knowing now. She won't blame herself when I'm gone, she will be able to say "I tried."'_

"I warned you. When we get home, pack your bags." This furry came to late, had it been in any of the early threats Sherlock might have taken his father more seriously. He might have saved himself the trouble of what was about to happen, might have ended it earlier.

Sherlock knew whatever was in store for him his father meant business.

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_All I ask is for any comment on this to be __respectful, this is the only story I will censor comments on. _


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